


See You In Court

by arcadenemesis



Series: Wild Card [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Tennis, Gay Disaster Shiro (Voltron), M/M, Pining Shiro (Voltron), Slice of Life, Sporting Rivalries, Yes I know Wild Card said Pining Keith it's mutual pining y'all
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-06-23 22:00:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19710289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arcadenemesis/pseuds/arcadenemesis
Summary: If Shiro's life were a movie, this would be the part where the music would swell and everything would slow down.He's not sure how long he stands there, just watching, but it's not until another hotel patron brushes past him that Shiro comes back down to Earth. Thank God Keith hasn't seen him yet. Meeting eyes from across the room seems romantic in theory, but Shiro's pretty sure his open staring would be anythingbutin reality. Better going for a smooth introduction, he decides, steeling himself and walking over with confidence he doesn't feel."Hey there, Wild Card."Takashi Shirogane is the best in the world at tennis, and the absolute worst at love.(Or, Wild Card through Shiro's eyes.)





	1. I Just Think You're Ace

_He's cute_ , is his first thought.

The second arrives swift behind it, reprimanding.   
_He's also a professional sportsman. As are you, supposedly. You're being inappropriate._

Still, when he hands over the serve and the rookie fixes him with wide eyes, Shiro can't help but feel an extremely premature sense of victory. It instils him with an instant of overconfidence as he shoots him a smile.

"Good luck, Wild Card."

Right. This is turning into an abject disaster at terminal speed. Shiro can only hope he adequately masks his mortification on his jog back to the baseline. Seconds away from starting this US Open semi, and he's _flirting_ with the opposition. Ridiculous. He might be the highest ranked player in the game, but tragically that doesn't seem to extend into any measure of dignity and common sense. He's on the pro-circuit now, not the high school courts. Not that the weird, fluttering thing happening in his chest seems to know any differently.

Moment of madness over, Shiro breathes slow through his nose and out his mouth, focusing, visualising, getting his head into his game plan. In truth, he knows he failed on his preparation for this match. Yesterday, he thought it was certain fact that he would face Matt Holt across the net. Instead, a wild card entry had taken his ticket and seized his opportunity with both hands. Shiro's scramble to research his surprise opponent had been both shameful and a little humbling. Perhaps holding top spot in tennis so long has made him a touch arrogant, blinding him to talent waiting in the wings. Lesson learned. 

He pushes that all out of mind ready to receive the serve, wiping out the stadium, wiping out the crowd, leaving him alone with only his opponent and his own game objectives: keep him running, keep him off-balance, be patient and advance to the final. Easy enough. It's a foolproof plan that has always served him well. 

His opponent arcs in slow motion, and with a slam, the ball flies over the net like a bullet. Faster than he anticipated. Shiro can't tell if he's even managed to move an inch before it soars past him.

"Fifteen-love."

Okay, so those flashy aces on YouTube were definitely not flukes. This guy is reckless. And when it works, it's fatal. It sends jolt down Shiro's spine, fizzling to where his fingers wrap around his racquet handle. For the first time in years, Shiro feels a spike of fear. That maybe his pedestal is no longer as safe and steady as it's always been. 

It's thrilling. 

Shiro isn't surprised when he cedes the first game, but the ace that seals it—right off the back of a fault—takes him aback. His opponent isn't one to retreat to safety when things don't go to plan. He glances at the shot clock as he calls for a ball ready for service. One-thirty-three. As good as any of Shiro's fastest serves. The guy is clearly a speed demon. It's the kind of play that excites a crowd, but it will be much more impressive if he's still doing it after a set or two. 

Shiro has to stay alert to hold his serve. It's a little alarming, a little discomforting. But God, if it isn't a lot of fun too. Almost half of all his usual winners find his way back to him. And it's not that he isn't hitting accurately—his opponent just won't quit, even on the impossible return. 

_He's inhuman_ , Shiro thinks, as they creep past the first hour into a tiebreaker. _I can't figure out how to break him._

A loud wolf-whistle pulls him out of his thoughts on his journey back to the baseline.

"Take it off!"

Confused, Shiro glances over his shoulder as the crowd laughs, seeing his opponent tugging at the hem of his shirt with a flush that seems borne of embarrassment and not the heat. Shiro can't help but feel like he's missed out on something vital.

It's _definitely_ not the reason why he surrenders his next point for the first break of the match. 

The thing is, in most aspects, Shiro isn't a terribly prideful person. He's humble in the recognition of his talent, gives wholeheartedly back to the community that supports him, and is quick to lend advice when asked. That all changes on the tennis court. Here, every match is like stepping into a gladiator ring with no alternative: victory or death. To lose a point to a lapse in his concentration is a personal sin. So he turns it up a notch, making brutal returns, challenging line calls even when he's only thirty percent sure, deploying pinpoint serves and drop shots. He claws his break back, and takes the next two points on top of that to seal the first set. Only then does he let himself breathe again. 

It's only thanks to a couple of lucky breaks that Shiro manages to stave off another tiebreak in the second set. He may be two up, but it still feels like he's on the ropes, barely in control. His opponent fights like fire, wild and unpredictable. Shiro is under no illusions that experience is the only thing keeping him afloat. Edged in with such ferocity is just a hint of indiscipline, a restlessness that can be exploited into frustration. Shiro taps into that gently in the third set, testing, and it yields fast results. He takes the match in straight sets, but it's not without challenge. This rookie is going places. 

Shiro hopes there are no hard feelings when he smiles and meets him at the net. It's always hard to tell until the handshake.   
"Good game," he says, and he means it sincerely.

The rookie only responds with earnest words.  
"Yeah. Thanks," he rushes out, a little breathless. And— _wow_ —he has stunning eyes up this close. Like nebulas, precious sapphire or some other profound, poetic image far beyond Shiro's capacity right now. "You too. Phenomenal."

That's it; Shiro is hopelessly endeared. He watches him rush back to his bench, almost a little shy. Shiro is sure he hasn't even noticed the group of teen girls who have rushed down to the fence, hoping to get a little of his attention. Of course he would be a quick favourite. He's young, criminally good looking, and exciting to watch on the court. Shiro feels drawn to him too after only one meeting. So much so, in fact, that he realises his feet are taking him to the wrong bench far too late to correct himself without looking like a complete fool. 

It's fine. It's totally fine. He's a successful, composed athlete at the top of his game. With... disobedient limbs. Surely he can think of a good reason for approaching his opponent after the post-match handshake and official niceties are behind them. How hard could it be?

Those beautiful eyes are like saucers when Shiro places his hand on his shoulder. Still, he barrels ahead with the only plan he has, glancing at the strip of red peeking out under glorious—if perhaps a little sweaty—dark hair.

"How attached are you to your sweatband?" he asks, leaning in close enough so he can be heard over the crowd without having to shout. The surprise at his presence seems to fade from the rookie's expression and he shrugs, nonchalant, miles cooler than Shiro can ever hope to be.

"Got plenty of others," he says as he zips up his bag. "Can't exactly call this one lucky after today either. Why?"

Shit, he's funny too, in the dry way Shiro likes best. Game, set, match, rookie. Shiro knows he's officially a lost cause. 

In a transparently thin attempt to get a little closer to him, Shiro ignores the question to slide gentle fingers through his hair to pull his red sweatband loose, transfixed by the way his hair falls around his face. Would it be weird to keep this?...

Oh yeah, definitely—one-hundred percent, psycho levels of weird. What is _wrong_ with him? He quickly recalibrates and flings the sweatband toward the young, screaming fans, as per the original plan. He needs to exit before he does something dumb.

"Until next time, Wild Card," he settles for, before returning to his own bench.

His name is Keith Kogane.

Shiro is never going to forget it.

* * *

The first shower in the locker rooms is just to make him presentable for the press. The second back in his hotel room is a chance to reflect on his performance and reset for his next match. Only, instead of analysing his gameplay strategy and how his body is holding up, he finds himself assessing a different kind of game altogether. Shiro knows he's never been great at flirting. Lord knows his ability to read interest from others is entirely non-existent. It's a minor miracle he's ever dated at all, and largely with no thanks to his own efforts. His last relationship only came to fruition because Adam had asked him point-blank if he was uninterested or just completely ignorant. (The latter. It had definitely been the latter.)

It's been a while since he's tested the waters—long before Adam and that subsequent implosion a year ago. Emerging from the bathroom, towel around his hips, he decides he would give today a passing grade. Not too bad at all. Actually, on reflection, he definitely nailed the whole interaction. Subtle. Suave. Enough to leave an impression without making his interest awkwardly apparent should Keith be tragically (and likely, with his luck) heterosexual. Maybe a second opinion can help him on that front. But overall, a solid effort. One he can be proud of. 

**_Matthew Holt_ ** [7:46 pm]  
_dude… wtFUCK  
was that today?? _

Never mind. 

* * *

Shiro thinks it's categorically unfair that he can be mere hours off the back completing a perfect Grand Slam run for the year, and still have his friends point out his failings.

"Am I really that obvious?" 

"Yes—"

"—No."

Allura shoots a glare Matt's way, but amends with a gentle hand on Shiro's arm. "Only to us, sweetie."

Shiro isn't really sure that's a comfort.  
"You saw him, right?" he asks, a little desperate. "I can't believe that was his first major. The way he reads the play, the way he moves around the court? He's innate. Better than I was at my first Open. He makes it look so good. He's…"

"... Special?" Allura supplies, after a pause.

"Yeah," Shiro breathes, swiping through the condensation on his glass with an absent finger. "How had I never heard of him before now?"

"Oh, Shiro," Allura consoles, petting his head as he slumps forward to rest it on the table.

"I still have no idea how people think you two are dating," Matt mutters into his beer. "You literally _caressed_ that newbie's hair in front of the entire world."

Shiro decides offence is his best defence, turning his face to frown up at his friend.  
"Need I remind you that 'newbie' tore you a new one in the quarterfinal?"

"Don't you start too," Matt groans loudly, leaning back in his chair. "He's clubmates with Katie and she's been giving me grief about it for the last four days non-stop."

"Where _is_ your sister?" Allura interjects. "I thought you said she would come out with us once she was on the pro circuit."

"Didn't make it through the qualifiers, so she went back to Arizona to train," Matt explains, and he seems genuinely disappointed. "She's still young. Next year though, I can feel it."

Shiro is still stuck half a conversation back.   
"Katie knows Keith?"

Matt pointedly drinks the rest of his glass in one hit, letting it clink on the table when he puts it down.  
"Don't get any ideas now, Shirogane."

Shiro busies himself with his own drink so he won't blush. 

* * *

He consoles himself with news alerts and social media updates when his circuit fails to cross Keith's in the months that follow. He resists the urge to follow his social media accounts, still cowed by Matt's unimpressed feedback at Flushing Meadows. But Keith's meteoric rise is impossible to avoid nevertheless. Shiro watches from afar between his own tournaments, delighting in his triumphs, wishing he could share in his celebrations with his clubmates that occasionally surface online. He improves every match, and Shiro can tell he's on the cusp of something great.

"Look who's coverboy for _Tennis_ this month," Allura grins, dropping a magazine into his lap in the departure lounge ahead of their flight to Australia.

It's a statement that leaves him rudely underprepared when he flips the magazine over and finds familiar, ever-bewitching eyes staring up at him. Distantly, he hears the tinkering of Allura's laughter above him, but Shiro is too stunned to pay much mind. Keith is a vision in gloss print, posture a deadly mix of devil-may-care and charm as he leans against the net pole beside him, racquet held loose in his grip. Shiro's been to enough shoots to know the dewy look of his skin is staged by a team of makeup artists, but that's far from his mind as he draws his eyes over his face, his perfectly tousled hair held in place by his signature sweatband, and down over his bare shoulders and unfairly attractive physique. 

"Wow…"

"Maybe I should have waited until you had your hotel room before I showed you," Allura teases, easily dodging with a laugh when Shiro tries to pinch her. "Come on, you can read it on the plane. It's time for us to board." 

Shiro cradles the magazine like a newborn until he's safely in his first class seat, refusing his welcome drink so he's in no danger of spillage. It's not until they're up in the air that he finally pulls his reading glasses out of his hand luggage and opens up to the feature piece.

## Courting Success

 _ Ellen Sanda_

He's been the surprise ticket of the year, but if you ask Keith Kogane, current number 36 and rising, where he expected to be this year, his answer is sure.

"Getting out of the qualifying tournaments and becoming part of the pro line-up before the end of the year was always my aim."

That, he's certainly achieved, and with no shortage of style.

While Kogane may come across a little distant and disinterested, a roguish smile lights up his undeniably handsome face when our talk moves to his startling appearance at the recent US Open, and it's clear why the nineteen-year-old is a favourite among female fans. Perhaps not as surprising as it seems, in spite of his ultimate loss, Kogane doesn't hesitate when asked his favourite match to date. 

"Facing off against Shiro so early in my career was unbelievable," he says. "It was definitely a defining point for me."

Kogane will get his chance to face world number 1 Shirogane, fresh off of a perfect Grand Slam run, at the Australian Open later this month.

|  | 

Our talk turns to Kogane's personal life and upbringing, and it's clearly a topic he keeps guarded. Instead, we talk about his current routine and how he unwinds after tournaments. He even laughs a little, embarrassed, when we bring up his popular post-match sweatband ritual.

"Um, yeah, it kind of caught on after my US Open exit," he says, reaching unconsciously for the one he wears now. "I honestly couldn't think of anything worse than taking my sweat home from a match, but it seems to make the crowd happy."

Talking about his clubmates erases any lingering awkwardness from our earlier questions.  
"Pidge [sic. Kogane refers to Katherine Holt here] is going to smash it this year. She's been training really hard. And Hunk [Garret] and Lance [McClain] are setting themselves up as the best young duo in doubles. It's only a matter of time before they make an impact in singles too. I'm glad they're with me. They're my team."

Exciting times ahead for the future of tennis, no doubt. We won't be surprised if Kogane ends up seeded by the time he leaves Australia.

_The Australian Open runs 19–28 January. For the latest news, scores and rankings, visit tennis.com_  
  
---|---|---  
  
Shiro knows he shouldn't read too much into the mention of his name, but there's a stutter in his chest every time he re-reads the answer to Keith's favourite match.

"Doing okay there?" Allura grins, making it all too apparent she has been watching him the entire time.

"He mentions me," Shiro says, a little distant.

She laughs with a tiny shake of her head.  
"You've got it _bad_ , sweetie."

Shiro isn't sure he has any way to argue that. 

* * *

Shiro's first words to his coach after he and Allura advance to the Hopman final aren't of their own match, or the one to come in two days time. Instead, he has a far more pressing question.

"Did he win?"

Allura gently swats his backside with her racquet as she laughs. Coran seems bemused by the entire situation.

"The Kogane boy?" he asks, pulling at his moustache when Shiro nods. "Hm, well yes, but we can focus on your strategy for him after the Hopman Cup."

"Oh, I don't think _that's_ the kind of strategy he's thinking about, Coran," Allura teases.

Shiro's too elated to defend himself. It marks Keith's first major tournament win. Shiro almost regrets choosing Perth over Brisbane; he would have loved to see him lift his trophy in person. 

_Patience_ , he tells himself. _The Open is still to come._

* * *

"You should invite him to join us when we do this after the Open," Allura says, stretching out on her towel after they secure their own final win. 

Shiro freezes mid-swipe of sunscreen.  
"What? Join our usual beach trip? Don't you think that's a bit… forward?" he laughs nervously. "We've only spoken once, on court. He probably has plans with his clubmates if he even is sticking around after the tournament."

Allura lowers her sunglasses to level him with an unimpressed look.  
"I have had to put up with you fawning over him for the last four months—"

"I don't _fawn_."

"—and if I catch you googling him _one more time_ in front of me, I'm going to send your mobile search history straight to Matt."

She's probably joking… probably. But maybe she has a point. It's getting a little ridiculous. It's well and truly past the point of keeping up with the competition when he finds himself down the rabbit hole of old YouTube videos and local newspaper columns from a town in Arizona he's never heard of.

"... You won't mind?" he asks quietly, surprised at how vulnerable he feels. It's an admission, almost. Despite playing along with all the good-natured ribbing, there's something about Keith that makes Shiro want to stop and watch. He's practically a stranger, but Shiro yearns to change that. He's not sure he's ever felt this way before. It's as frightening as it is consuming. 

Allura softens, sitting up and perching her glasses on her head.   
"You like him," she says, as if breaking it to him gently. "It's not like you to get hung up on someone at all. I just don't want you wondering 'what if' forever."

"He might be straight."

"He might have a weird toenail collection."

Shiro snorts. "Oddly specific."

"Point is," Allura emphasises, "you won't know unless you give it a go, hm? Maybe you'll make a new friend. Maybe it will be something more. Maybe it will be a complete bust and we can laugh about this later. In any case, promise me you'll try."

It's always been hard to say no to her.

"Fine, fine. If the opportunity presents itself—and you promise to deal with Matt—I'll ask."

* * *

Opportunity presents itself far sooner than Shiro ever expects. He's mere hours in Melbourne—enough time only for a solid night's sleep and little else—when he makes his way to the lobby for breakfast instead of calling room service and… there he is. Staring out the window, early morning sunshine like gold on his skin. If Shiro's life were a movie, this would be the part where the music would swell and everything would slow down. 

He's not sure how long he stands there, just watching, but it's not until another hotel patron brushes past him that Shiro comes back down to Earth. Thank God Keith hasn't seen him yet. Meeting eyes from across the room seems romantic in theory, but Shiro's pretty sure his open staring would be anything _but_ in reality. Better going for a smooth introduction, he decides, steeling himself and walking over with confidence he doesn't feel.

"Hey there, Wild Card."

And Keith promptly whips up his head and _chokes_. So much for the smooth introduction. Shiro panics, patting him on the back uselessly. His false confidence abandons him immediately as he wonders whether he can be charged for manslaughter via muesli under Australian law.  
"Woah, sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," he hurries out. "Please don't die."

Keith waves him off. "It's fine," he placates, lovely voice strained around the breakfast lodged in his throat.

"I just saw you sitting on your own and wondered if you'd like some company," Shiro babbles, feeling more and more like an idiot as Keith looks up to him with wide eyes. This was a stupid idea. He probably _wanted_ some time alone, before the start of a busy few weeks.  
"But of course," he adds hastily, "if you'd rather eat in peace…"

Keith surprises him by interrupting that train of thought. "No, no," he insists, reaching for his glass of water. He sounds a little less scratchy when he speaks next. "Please, sit."

Shiro feels a flood of relief, and he can't help the smile that spreads across his face. Best to try to recover from his disastrous start with something safer.   
"Nice going in Brisbane," he says as he takes his seat. A pleased little smile tugs at Keith's lips and Shiro silently celebrates the victory.

"Thanks," Keith says softly, but he doesn't let them dwell on his achievements. "Same to you in Perth."

He has every right to milk his first international win for all it's worth, but humbly he deflects. Conversely, Shiro has to work hard to mask the joy that sparks in his chest with the knowledge he's been watching his results too. It's probably no more than competitive research to know his form coming into the Open, but Shiro preens under it anyway. 

"Hopman is always fun," he says, internally cringing at how eager he sounds. "You should give it a go next year."

It's a poorly veiled attempt to face him in a more friendly court environment, but Keith wrinkles his nose, so Shiro smothers his disappointment by calling one of the attendants over carrying a teapot.

"Team stuff is… not my strength," he explains, and so Shiro musters a smile.

"Not good at sharing the court?"

"Something like that. Lack of ranking points doesn't help either."

Ah, of course. He's still building his standing. Shiro hadn't even thought of that.   
"You won't need them next year," he says, a fact he's certain about. He has no doubt Keith will be a top-ranked player before much longer. He sits back with his tea as Keith orders a coffee. While he waits, his mind drifts back to the _Tennis_ cover and Keith's reluctance to talk about his past. It's been something that has been eating at him—but not out of any intrusive feeling of entitlement to know more about him. Shiro worries a little about the why rather than the what. Looking at him now, he seems no different to anyone else chasing his dream the world over. But Shiro can't help but feel there's something painful hidden there.

"I saw your article," he says absently.

"I saw your selfie with the rats."

And okay, he doesn't want to talk about it. That's fine. Shiro leaves it be.  
"Quokkas!" he corrects, in spite of the fact that his brain tries to short-circuit around the concept that Keith has been looking at his Instagram photos. He laughs at the absurd turn of the conversation. It does remind him why he's here though, thinking back to the conversation he had with Allura on an island beach, not long after that photo was taken. 

_"Promise me you'll try."_

Shiro tries to steady himself with a sip of his tea, keeping his voice as casual as he can manage.  
"Are you planning on staying long after the Open?"

The surprise that floods Keith's expression is far better than the suspicion Shiro feared.  
"Just a couple of days." Shiro tries not to get too ahead of himself, but his heartbeat betrays him with a sudden spike. "My coach makes us book flexi-flights in case we need to go home earlier, but we're booked for the thirty-first, I think."

The arrival of Keith's coffee is the only thing that stops his proposal spilling out in a jumble of words. Shiro silently thanks the waiter for their timing. 

"Allura and I were thinking of heading out of the city and finding a quiet beach after the final," he says, once they're alone again. "You should join us."

Keith's reply comes out a little disbelieving. "Allura Alforson?"

And, oh… that seems to be a selling point. Shiro's heart comes to a sudden halt. He can only give a soft hum in response, voice stuck.

"I mean, I don't have any plans," Keith continues, a light flush in his cheeks that makes Shiro feel a little miserable. "But I don't want to intrude."

"You wouldn't be," Shiro says, smiling while the stone in his chest sinks to his belly. It doesn't matter if Keith isn't interested; Shiro would still like to be his friend at the very least. He takes comfort in the smile that crosses Keith's lips—his second for the morning—as he turns his gaze out the window again.

"Okay. Sounds fun."

Shiro decides he can be satisfied with that. And at least when Allura asks, he can truthfully say he gave it a shot.

"I'll let you know where we're headed once Allura and I have had a chance to figure it all out," he says, quickly draining the last of his tea and getting to his feet. On second thought, room service breakfast seems much more appealing. "Good luck with your draw."

He pulls out his phone the moment he's out of sight. 

**_Me_ ** [7:07 am]  
_Found Keith_

 **_Allura Alforson_ ** [7:07 am]  
_And??_

 **_Me_ ** [7:08 am]  
😞

 **_Allura Alforson_ ** [7:09 am]  
_Get changed. I'm not making_  
_you breakfast mac at 2 days_  
_before a tournament. Let's go_  
_for a walk._

* * *

Allura caves and buys him a croissant at the first bakery they pass. What Coran doesn't know won't hurt him.

"You're lucky your metabolism is still kind to you," Allura grumbles as she nurses a green juice. "Coran would have a fit if he knew how much I enable you."  
Shiro just hums despondently and Allura sighs. "I need to understand exactly what happened. What did he say when you asked?"

Shiro shrugs. "He said, 'Sounds good.'"

Allura stops still, and Shiro turns, confused.

"Give me that," she frowns, reaching to attempt to snatch his pastry. "You're in meltdown over 'sounds good'? Are you serious?"

Shiro is quick to defend his breakfast and his mood.  
"I'm pretty sure he only agreed because I said you would be there."

Allura stops short. "Oh…" She blinks, caught off guard. "Well, we haven't even spoken before. Are you sure you didn't misread the situation?"

Shiro shrugs again, staring forlornly into his croissant.

"... Do you need me to convince Matt to do some detective work?"

"I'm not dragging his sister into this," Shiro says. "That seems… I don't know, desperate?" He sighs. "It's fine. We all knew it was a long shot. I'm just glad we'll all get a chance to know him a little better after the Open."

Allura still seems to have her doubts, but at least she's kind enough not to voice them aloud.

* * *

Keith stays in his periphery, even though seeding means their draws won't cross until the quarterfinals. He's still breathtaking to watch though, even if Shiro's schedule prevents him from being in the crowd. He simply walks over his competition, thrilling the court with his skill and finesse, his breakneck rise to tennis fame all but a certainty...

Right up until the round of 16.

Shiro can barely believe the vision on the locker room televisions. Keith has always been a fiery player… but never this. Never graceless or ill-mannered or rash. Never broken racquets or open hostility to his opponent. It shocks Shiro.

 _Something's wrong,_ he thinks as Keith receives his first point penalty. _This isn't him…_

"Shiro!" He rips his eyes away from the screen at the sound of Coran's voice. "Get a wriggle on! You were supposed to be getting ready so you could squeeze in that radio spot before warm up."

Shiro winces. Coran has always been a master of marketing his athletes. Begrudgingly, Shiro has to admit it works well for both him and Allura, keeping them high profile, while satiating the appetite of the press to ensure they don't have a target on their back. He's loathe to miss the final set of Keith's match, but the schedule won't wait for him. He'll just have to find out if level heads will prevail after he steps off the court for his match. 

"Sorry coach! Coming!"

* * *

With the win under his belt and a quarterfinal locked in for the next day, Shiro's first question doesn't come out of strategy—it comes out of concern.

"Who am I facing tomorrow?" 

Coran doesn't know the difference.  
"James Griffin," he says, glancing at his tablet. "Ranked, uh… 59 it says here. This is his second Australian Open but it's the first time he's advanced to the quarterfinals in a major. Might be a bit of a challenge, but he seems a very by-the-book player."

Shiro isn't listening, feeling his heart sink. It's more than wanting to face Keith again; Shiro just wants to know if he's okay. 

"We can discuss more after your post-match."

"Mm…"

Shiro puts on a smile for the press. It's what they're expecting after a win, and predictability in front of the camera has never been a bad thing. They welcome him warmly with congratulations and praise for his win today.

"This will be your first time facing James Griffin. How do you approach matches with young talent?"

"Implying I'm not young?" Shiro jokes. "I've still got a couple of weeks until twenty-five. Don't sign me up to the ATP pension plan just yet."

The reporter laughs. "Not at all, not at all. Sometimes we forget how young you are when you've accomplished so much. Does that make it easier to face young players?"

Shiro smiles, leaning his forearms on the table. "I don't think it makes it _easier_. There are so many players rising through the ranks right now offering us something fresh. Something we haven't seen before. It's exciting. But not easier. I think the important thing is to treat your opponent with respect no matter who they are—veteran or green. I'll always put in some time watching my opponent's games before our match."

Another reporter is quick to jump on that. "Have you had a chance to watch the match between Griffin and Kogane today in that case?"

As wary as the question makes him, Shiro knows better than to lie. "I got to watch the first few sets before I had to prepare for my own match."

"You mentioned respect for your opponents is vital. We didn't see a lot of that on either side in the Griffin-Kogane match. It looked like there was little love lost between the two. Kogane smashed a few racquets and Griffin only seemed to egg him on throughout the match. What are your thoughts on matches like these, Kogane's antics in particular?"

Shiro tries to turn the frown he feels pulling at his brow into a thoughtful expression. What are they trying to do? Bait him into chastising both of them? Of course he can't brush it off as nothing, otherwise the press would have a field day about "the state of the game" or some other catchy headline. The last thing he wants is to make the situation worse, particularly when Keith is so directly involved. He tries to be diplomatic. 

"I don't condone the behaviour, of course. But I hardly think it's fair to paint Keith with a certain brush over one match." The idea that anyone would makes Shiro's insides twist. It simply doesn't add up to the player he faced at Flushing Meadows, or the person who sat across from him at a hotel breakfast table. "It’s obvious it was a rather gruelling game, and there’s probably a lot more under the surface that we don’t know about. I don’t think it’s fair for me to make a comment about it.”

Surely the press can find reason in that. 

"Do you have any words of advice for Kogane at this time?”

Shiro pauses, trying to think of the words he'd have. A reassurance of faith that Shiro knows Keith will be great. That he can't take his eyes off of him, no matter whether he stumbles, because he's a captivating force that Shiro can't fight. They're words far too personal, far too intimate to say outside of private conversation. He reaches for something else. 

“Just… stay patient. And don’t give up when a few calls don’t go your way. You have to believe in your game no matter what.”

* * *

There's no sign of Keith at the hotel when Shiro gets back. It's not a surprise—he's hardly seen him at all since the tournament started—but it's still disheartening. A loss is always heartbreaking, but Shiro feels a little downcast that Keith won't face him tomorrow too. There's a part of him that has been so excited to see him across the net again that he had almost accepted their eventual rematch here as fact. To stumble at the last block throws Shiro off-centre too. But more than that, Shiro just wants to reach out, to make sure he's all right. 

He's had too long on the trip back from the courts to think about the press conference. Did he choose the right words? Should he have said anything at all? Maybe Keith feels embarrassed enough about today without him butting in. It's all too easy to stew alone.

Strictly speaking, Shiro knows it isn't right to abuse his fame for personal gain. It's not something he usually exploits. At least, that is what he reassures himself as he walks up to concierge with his most winning smile.

"Hi," he greets softly, pretending not to notice how the woman at the desk goes stock-still. "So sorry to bother you. I just left my phone in my room and I was wondering if you could call a guest for me?"   
Shiro feels a little bad about how flustered the poor woman looks already.

"O-oh, of course, Mr Shirogane. Which room?"

It's not hard to look sheepish when he already feels like an idiot.   
"I, um… I actually don't know," he laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. "It's for Keith Kogane."

The woman seems nervous, and guiltily Shiro realises she's probably not _supposed_ to assist him like this. But after a few taps of her keyboard, she dials a number and holds out the phone on her desk.  
"Be quick," she says conspiratorially. 

Shiro whispers a thank you to her as he holds the receiver to his ear, but to his disappointment, it rings out without any response.  
"Must already be on his way down," he offers lamely. "Thanks…"

The universe throws him a bone though, because the first face he sees when he turns away is one he recognises from Twitter exchanges observed from afar and in the background of news articles.

"Lance!"

The American doubles player freezes mid-step, and it would be comical how his head slowly turns in disbelief if Shiro wasn't a man on a mission. 

"Sorry, you're Lance McClain, right?"

Somehow, the guy's eyes grow impossibly wider, before the most forced look of nonchalance schools his expression.  
"Uh, yeah. That's me. That's my name, Lance, that you just said. You're, um," he clears his throat, looking anything but casual, "you're Shiro, yeah? Really good match today. You did, uh… you?… won good?..."

"Thanks," Shiro dismisses, not really paying attention. "Hey, have you seen Keith around?"

"Keith?" Shiro would feel a little bad at how Lance deflates if it weren't for his one track mind. "After he made Babolat into a Picasso piece? Nope, haven't heard a peep from him."

Okay, not the answer he was looking for.  
"Would you happen to have his phone number?"

There's a brief look of shock on Lance's face, before it turns into something sly.  
"Oh man, this is a really bizarre coincidence. I was _just_ looking for someone who had Allura Alforson's number—"

"Uh…"

"—It's a bit of an emergency, actually. You see—"

"Lance!"

Shiro barely holds back his sigh of relief at the interruption as a smaller, angrier version of Matt marches toward them.

"Please tell me you're not harassing _Takashi Shirogane_ in our hotel lobby right now," she hisses.

"It's fine," Shiro assures quickly, offering her a smile. "The Holt resemblance is uncanny. You must be Katie."

She blinks under his attention.  
"Um, yeah. How do you—"

"Your brother talks about you all the time," he offers in explanation, trying not to sound too impatient. "You might be able to help me. I was just chasing Keith's number, if you have it?"

"Uh, sure," she says, fishing through her pockets. "We're just about to head out. Did you want me to read it out or—"

"You can text it to me," Shiro says, knowing he's pushing his luck now. "I'll give you my number. Might come in handy with Matt anyway."

Katie looks a little stunned, but she hands over her phone regardless, letting Shiro plug in his details.

"Thanks so much," he says, struggling to hide his relief. He smiles as a third person joins their group, watching him freeze too when they lock eyes. Hunk, Shiro thinks his name is. He pales when Shiro offers him a small wave. No time to stop for pleasantries though; he has a night of overthinking everything he's done these last few hours to get to. "Have a great night. Catch you around."

Shiro doesn't realise he's been holding his breath until he's in the elevator and his phone buzzes in his pocket.

**_Unknown number_ ** [5:06 pm]  
_hi shiro  
attchd k's no below _

Shiro sends off a quick reply of gratitude before opening up a new message. Taking a deep breath, he tries to test the waters.

 **_Me_ **[5:09 pm]  
_Hey Keith_  
_I hope there are no hard feelings  
__about the post match press_

He slots his phone back in his pocket to make sure he doesn't stare at it until Keith replies. But as he steps into his hotel suite and places his keycard on the table by the door, he has a frantic thought, scrambling for his phone.

**_Me_ **[5:13 pm]  
_Oh, this is Shiro btw  
__Katie Holt gave me your number_

He's an idiot. He should have lead with that. God knows he would flip out if he thought a fan had managed to find his number. The next text fires automatically.

**_Me_ **[5:14pm]  
_I tried your friend Lance, but he  
__wanted Allura's number in exchange :/_

Does he need to know that? Probably not. Shiro can tell his silent panicking is getting the best of him. He needs to put the phone down. He needs a distraction. A long, scalding shower sounds like exactly the right kind. 

It alleviates his mind for all of maybe fifteen minutes before he falls back into thoughts of disappointed violet eyes and he starts to rush his shampoo regime. He still forces himself to walk past his phone when he emerges from the bathroom to get changed into clothes for dinner. It's a personal victory for self respect. Well… half a victory. No one needs to know if he only gets one sock and half his buttons done before he caves and rushes for the device. He takes a breath, steadying himself.

Nothing.

That makes his heart pound just as hard as seeing a reply. His fingers are flying across the keyboard before he can think.

**_Me_ **[5:42 pm]  
_Are you there?_

He regrets it the second it sends, tempted to throw his phone off his balcony, into the garbage chute or simply into the toilet. Instead, he calls Allura.

"I'm making a fool of myself. Please come and get me."

Allura _could_ sigh. She could question or berate him. Instead, she saves her judgement.

"Dinner downstairs? I have a morning slot tomorrow, unlike you."

He's beside her in the elevator when his phone buzzes, and she only gives him a concerned look when he scrambles for his pocket like it's full of fire ants. It's far kinder than he deserves, especially when his face falls at what meets him.

**_Katherine Holt_ **[6:07 pm]  
_coach says k on plane 2  
__PHX_

She doesn't use a character more than absolutely necessary, Shiro is quickly learning. After a short acknowledgement, he opens his one-sided chat, cringing again at the last message he sent. Nothing to do but barrel ahead.

**_Me_ **[6:09 pm]  
_Oh, I just heard. You must be flying._  
_Guess you won't be able to make it  
__to the beach._

Allura's curiosity finally gets the better of her.  
"Shiro, sweetie, who are you texting there? You look so glum."

Shiro heaves a sigh, tucking his phone away.  
"Keith's already on his way back to America. I just wanted to see him… check if he's okay."

Allura reaches to squeeze his hand as the elevator doors open. "Maybe it's for the best, Shiro," she says, a tiny frown pinching between her brows. "He was… kind of childish on court today. It's all the media are talking about right now."

"Everyone has bad days," Shiro defends immediately. "And… it's not like this is normal. Has anyone asked if he's all right, or are they just writing him off?"

Allura looks a touch contrite at that, expression easing. "I guess you're right," she concedes. "A snap judgement is a little unfair." She loops her arm in the crook of his elbow with a grin. "You know what would make you feel better?"

"Buying you dinner?" Shiro deadpans.

"Buying me dinner," she affirms cheerfully.

* * *

Allura is reliable. She keeps his mind off of Keith while they eat and helps him refocus on his next match with a little partner study. Squinting at her screen ("I'm going to start carrying a pair of glasses for you, Shiro…"), he can see Coran was pretty on the mark: Griffin is a very textbook player. It works to his advantage, clearly. The guy is meticulous, precise… he's just not terribly exciting either.

"Do you think I did the right thing in my press conference?" he asks as he walks Allura back to her room. "I can't help but think I overstepped… we hardly know each other, after all."

Allura tries to reassure him with a smile.   
"I would have done the same thing if I was you."   
It doesn't work.  
"You're a role model in this sport, Shiro. Anyone would be lucky to have your advice."

Shiro hopes his returning smile doesn't look as uneasy as he feels when he bids her good night.

**_Me_ ** [10:22 pm]  
_Look, I just wanted to say I'm sorry._  
_I should have been a little more clever  
__and passed on the question._

He tries to watch one more match in bed to prepare for tomorrow, but YouTube suggests a recap of the morning's match, and from there it's a slow descent into the abyss of video coverage of Keith's meltdown and Griffin's poor sportsmanship. On one particularly critical clip, Shiro decides to leave an anonymous comment in Keith's defence and watches in dismay as it gets downvoted into oblivion almost immediately. He can't help but feel like he's trying to put out a stubborn spark next to a fuel tanker that just won't go out.

**_Me_ **[12:01 am]  
_Watch out for the media when you  
__touch down._

He tosses for a moment, trying to get comfortable. Trying not to think of the critical comments. Trying not to let his mind drift back to the void he can't stop messaging. Trying not to beat himself up too much when he fails again.

**_Me_ ** [12:16 am]  
_Anyway, if you ever want to talk  
__you have my number now._

* * *

Far from the vision burned into the backs of his eyelids, James Griffin is nothing but polite and earnest when he shakes Shiro's hand across the net. It seems his attitude problem ends with Keith, and his behaviour on the court is nothing but tempered and even. Somehow, that irks Shiro more. He could almost forgive his poor sportsmanship if it was something every player had to suffer through. Knowing Keith is the only recipient makes Shiro feel resentful. He should be conserving energy for the rest of the tournament, but he goes hard, shutting down the play in his favour to take a chokehold grip on the match.

He destroys Griffin in merciless straight sets.

Perhaps part of it is a personal kind of revenge. To finish a best of five in under an hour is the ultimate insult, and Shiro can't help but feel a little bad when Griffin quickly retreats in embarrassment once the match official shakes his hand. He was needlessly ruthless, Shiro knows. A little part of him still hopes Keith notices. 

The press try to probe him again about Keith in his post-match conference, but it's not until Allura finds him after that he understands why.

Her face is filled with a murderous intent when she storms over to him. And with her racquet in hand, it certainly looks like she's armed to kill. Shiro has seen this look once before, years ago, when she broke up with Lotor following a controversial political tirade online that had tarnished his squeaky clean image and threatened hers as collateral.

"I take back every concession I gave him," she says, quiet but curt in a dangerous way.

"Wh—"

But then there's a phone shoved into his hands, a furious face on the screen hidden behind a pair of aviators and under a cap, and three venomous words snarled from behind gritted teeth.

_"Fuck Takashi Shirogane."_

* * *

When he holds up his trophy three days later, the smile on Shiro's face is for the cameras only. He might have won the Open, but it feels like he's lost something far more valuable at the same time.

Victory never tasted so bitter.


	2. Double Fault

Allura likes to say there are two versions of Shiro in the universe. 

First and foremost, there is the one that everyone sees: the successful, well-put-together tennis superstar with the glamorous life. A shining example of hard work and dedication to craft. The kind of guy everyone wants to be (or be with). A beacon of achievement, of confidence, but also of humility and kindness.

Then there's the second Shiro. Still kind and sweet, but also far more likely to rock up late at the beach wallowing in misery with last night's cheese sauce stains on his pyjama-cum-swim shirt. Only a select few people get to meet this Shiro. Not everyone considers it an honour.

"You're killing the vibe," Matt whines as Shiro lays out his towel. "I'm pretty sure it even got cloudier the second you arrived."

"Go easy on him," Allura admonishes. It's only a front. "If Shiro wants to waste emotional energy on ungrateful, rude _boys_ , then that's his prerogative."

"I can go back inside," Shiro says dryly.

"Don't you dare," Allura growls, tugging his hand so he lands with a thump on his towel. "You will sit here, you will enjoy this lovely weather with us and you _will have fun doing it_."

It's vaguely threatening, so Shiro doesn't resist, even when Allura sighs and pulls him against her side, petting his hair.

"You just won your seventh Grand Slam in a row," she says, softer. "You should be celebrating. He doesn't deserve a second thought."

But Shiro still disagrees.  
"He had a horrible match," he defends. "There was something more to it, I can just tell. And his coach responded by packing him up to travel 20-odd hours home alone? That's such a poor call. He needs support, not isolation."

Matt sits up and props his sunglasses on his head, so it must be serious. "Dude, that's not your responsibility. And it doesn't excuse his behaviour on the court or with the press."

Burying his toes in the sand, Shiro frowns.  
"I just… I understand. I shouldn't have said anything. It would have been the sour cherry on top of everything."  
It's the same circle of thought he's been fighting these last few days. He tries not to think of the unanswered texts or the social media silence, of the video, the news articles—any of it. He always comes up spectacularly short.  
"He hates me," Shiro says glumly. "I just wanted to get to know him, and I completely ruined it."

"Stop beating yourself up," Allura says, pressing her cheek to the top of his head.

"Yeah!" Matt agrees. "Who cares what Keith Kogane thinks anyway?"

Shiro cares. Shiro cares very much. 

* * *

February keeps Shiro a world away. While the rest of his clubmates make the journey to Dubai, Keith only travels as far as Mexico. Alone. Shiro feels very fixated on that part. 

It's a mild miracle Shiro manages to keep himself away from Keith's team when he spies them on the practice courts. It would be terribly rude to bother them with his problems when they have a cup campaign on their minds. That mindset lasts him all the way up to his semi-final win, when Shiro's newsfeed begins to crow of Keith's quarter-final defeat at Acapulco. Shiro's heart sinks. His hope had been for Keith to regain a little confidence over in Mexico. Making the final was well within his reach. The journalists covering the event are all too aware of that too, and Shiro can't help but feel they take a little too much glee in that. There's a consistent message that comes out of it all.

Keith has made a name for himself after the Australian Open: the new bad boy of tennis. 

Shiro can't even find any evidence of poor behaviour or bad sportsmanship from any of his matches in Acapulco. But the label is a sticky one, and now it's been affixed once, Shiro worries how hard it will be to remove. He feels somewhat responsible. Especially when one journalist writes proclamations of how Keith is to be his up and coming career arch-nemesis.

Shiro's resolve snaps. He needs _some_ way to reach out, and his best bet is right here in Dubai. The women's event is over anyway, he tells himself in an attempt to absolve himself of any lingering guilt when he next sees Katie Holt on the practice courts. She goes stiff when he calls her name, then forcibly relaxes. It's an improvement from the uncomfortable star-struck routine of last time at least. 

"Looking for Matt?" she asks.

Shiro smiles sheepishly. "Actually, I'm looking for you."

"Oh."

She folds her arms, and Shiro suddenly gets the sense that she's on the defensive. It takes him by surprise. He wonders whether he needs to proceed with caution. 

"Congrats on the semi finish," he starts, because it would be rude to dive straight into his self-interest. "Your start to this season has been really impressive."

Katie blushes, and Shiro feels rotten for having ulterior motives. "Ah… it's, um, it's nothing, you know. Just a bit of luck in smaller comps or whatever."

"Not at all!" Shiro insists earnestly. "You've improved so much this last year. Matt has been practically buzzing every time I've seen him. He's really proud of you."

That brings a smile to her face, but then her posture straightens and she looks him dead in the eye. Shiro suddenly feels absurdly tiny under her gaze.

"Okay, that aside, what are you _really_ here for Shiro?"

"I—"

It's like she can sense the denial on the tip of his tongue. 

"Don't get me wrong, I really appreciate the words, but I'm not stupid. And it's okay—I'm not offended. At least you're tactful. But just spit it out, please. You're making me feel tense just looking at you."

Shiro winces. "Sorry."

But Katie only waves him off.

He has to fight to get the words out, feeling foolish. "Um, Keith…" he starts, and Katie shifts uncomfortably. "I was just wondering… Is he okay? Have you heard anything from him?"

Katie pauses, considering her words carefully.  
"Did you message him?"

"Yes."

"Before or after he got off the plane?"

Shiro's heart twists at the reminder. "Before… He, uh, didn't answer."

"That might be for the best," Katie says, frowning. "I shouldn't have—" She cuts herself off with a sigh, unfolding her arms.

It strikes Shiro that she regrets handing over Keith's number, and embarrassment flushes hot through him. "If I've put you in an awkward position in all of this, then I'm so sorry," he says quickly. "I just… I want you to know I have no ill feelings about anything, especially given—"

Ugh, he's rambling, he can tell. With a hand through his hair, he tries to reset. He needs to get it together.

"Just… Is he okay?" Shiro asks again, quietly.

That uncomfortable look in Katie's eyes doesn't go away. "I haven't really spoken to him since the Australian Open."

Shiro resists the urge to sigh, forcing a smile.  
"Right. Of course," he says, far brighter than he feels. "I'm so sorry for accosting you like this. I'm really grateful for your patience with me."

He needs to make an exit, fast. 

"Enjoy practice," he says, already taking a step back. "I'll see you around!"

Matt is going to kill him.

* * *

"Should I kill him?"

Shiro stops short when he hears Matt's voice in the hotel hallway on his way back from the courts. He's answered with laughter, so at least that bodes well for his mortality. 

"Don't be stupid," comes the response, confirming that it's Katie he speaks to. "He's got his heart in the right place. I just don't want to be involved like this. Keith is… I don't know. He took the loss hard, but the media thing is really spooking him, I think."

Shiro rests against the wall, knowing he shouldn't listen, but he's unwilling to make things awkward… and his need to know more about Keith outweighs his shame, just. 

"He shouldn't have said what he said about Shiro," Matt says, and Shiro can sense his friend's frown.

"Perhaps, but I don't think he means it." Shiro hears her sigh. "He's always been this super closed-off person. I know pretty much zip about his home life—that's cool, you know, it's his choice—but now all of a sudden he has this big spotlight on him and I think that really scares him."

The ache in Shiro's chest evolves from dull to pressing.

"He's got journalists labelling him a villain and all these strangers on the internet weighing in with their cold takes about how he's bad for tennis and shit when he's really just the sweetest guy once you get past his rough edges."

Shiro's heart pauses in the silence until Matt sighs too.

"I've never known you to be a bad judge of character, Pidge."

"You're damn right about that."

"Shiro's as good as they come though."

"Yeah, I know… I just need to look after my friend."

"So does this mean you won't be coming to our post-tournament dinner?"

"You know what they say," Katie answers lightly. "Bros before hoes, y'know?"

"I _am_ your bro, you little shit!" Matt cries, and Shiro suppresses his amusement in the scuffle that follows until a thought occurs to him. 

_Wait… does this mean I'm the "hoe"?_

"Pidgey, I've been waiting for us to hang out on tour for years now," Matt whines, his voice getting more distant.

"Soon," he hears Katie promise. "I'm sure this will all blow over quick. _Then_ we can all hang out."

Shiro waits for the gentle click of closing doors before he sighs, adjusting the strap of the training bag on his shoulder. He can only hope she's right. 

* * *

With the French Open on the horizon, staying in Europe during months in the lead up has always been Coran's strategy. Shiro can understand; the fewer long-haul flights he has to endure mid-season, the better. He's never exactly been a master at jetlag, despite his years of international competition. Now though, Shiro regrets not insisting on throwing a US tournament in the mix, knowing the likelihood of Keith's appearance. Another part of him is relieved, afraid he's veering into obsession. It's been months since Melbourne. And—true—all he wants is to know if Keith is coping, but how long is too long to keep thinking of him like this? At what point does his concern become performative; less about Keith and more about himself and how much he just wants to _talk_ to him? Shiro tells himself to try and put it all out of mind…

Then Keith wins the Miami Open.

It's his second tournament win, and it should be triumphant, but even from Europe, Shiro can hear the stirrings of contempt. And so he circles back to his concerns once more. 

He wants to talk to Allura, to sort through his thoughts, but the WTA takes her Switzerland while he prepares for the Monte Carlo Masters. He doesn't even have Matt to lean on, while he pursues a defence of his US Men's Clay Court Championships title in Houston. Perhaps it's for the best. Shiro has already exhausted a lot of their goodwill with his misery over the course of the active season. It's time he finally learns how to deal with his feelings about Keith for himself. 

Perhaps that's why he doesn't realise he's not listening to his body until after he sweeps the Masters, then pulls his right shoulder in a gruelling semi-final loss in a rough match at the Madrid Open against Sendak Yuruk. Their matches have never been friendly—Shiro always seems to pull up sore whenever their paths cross—but this is the first time he's had an injury scare like this. No doubt Sendak took note of his discomfort and capitalised with his thrashing backhand, forcing Shiro to stretch and reach for the ball continuously, only aggravating his soreness. 

_There's someone who deserves the title of villain_ , Shiro thinks bitterly when he ices his shoulder in his hotel room. Despite his protests, Coran insists on halting his training schedule and pushes his flight to Paris forward, before Shiro can even contemplate flying a little further south to watch the Internazionli d'Italia play out. He suspects Allura might have intervened there when she heard of his loss.

"No need to fret, my boy," Coran assures cheerfully over the phone. "Even if the trainer told you it's only a strain, we don't want to jeopardise your French Open chances. Besides, Allura said she has something to keep you occupied during your downtime."

Shiro isn't sure he likes the sound of that…

* * *

The pure, unbridled excitement on Allura's face is the only thing that stops Shiro from saying no.

"I can't believe we're going to be on the cover!"

For her, Shiro can. There are entire blogs dedicated to Allura's fashion on and off the court. She's dragged him to more fashion shows that Shiro could ever hope to remember, and had her face splashed across dozens of brand campaigns. Vogue Paris seems a natural step.

Him, on the other hand…

"They're definitely going to frame this as a couple thing. Surely you're sick of playing my beard at this point."

Allura sniffs indignantly. "I make a beautiful beard, thank you very much."

Shiro laughs, but it must sound off, because Allura covers his hand with hers.

"I know your mantra is to not make a big deal and just let whatever comes happen naturally, but if this feels like pretending to you—if it _bothers_ you—just tell me and I'll call it all off."

God, Shiro appreciates her. She's good and kind right down to the bone, always thinking of others ahead of herself.

"This will be fun," he assures her. "I'm looking forward to it." 

Allura brightens, no matter how she tries to suppress it, but her joy puts him at ease. He really does love her. Just... not in the way some people like to speculate. 

"Besides, the interview was tame enough," Shiro says lightly. "The photos have to be easier, right?"

Shiro learns the photos are, in fact, not easy at all. There's a chasm of difference between sponsor shoots and headshots in tennis court settings, and world of high-end couture. Shiro has never worn anything more uncomfortable in his life than the shirt they put him in for the first scene, nor has his face been covered in more make-up, or his body manipulated into such contorted poses. Allura loves every second though, so he sucks it up for her sake, even when he can feel the weight of his jetlag and his shoulder starts aching again. He accidentally lets out a sigh of relief loud enough to catch the attention of one of the lighting assistants, sheepishly making a swift retreat back to wardrobe where someone can finally extract him from his last outfit. 

Allura squeals over dinner when the editor sends through early proofs of the images, and Shiro decides that alone is worth it. However, it doesn't make the fact that Matt rocks up to the practice courts two days before the French Open with the magazine cover screen-printed on his shirt any less embarrassing. 

"Two things," Shiro says, before they even exchange greetings. "First, I'm pretty sure that's illegal reproduction, and secondly, how the hell did you manage to get this done?" By now, he can't even hide his fake outrage, with laughter colouring his tone. "The cover came out only a _week_ ago."

"Oh, this?" Matt asks, tugging at Shiro's printed face. "I just figured if you two weren't going to invite me, I'll just join the party myself. I'm especially impressed that they managed to put your eye right over my nipple."

"Matt!" Allura scowls, but Shiro snorts, turning his attention back to his racquet bag.

"I'm not going to put in a word when Vogue issues a cease and desist."

"It'll be worth it," Matt shrugs. "What's life without danger?"

Shiro laughs, but as he looks up, the sound quickly peters out. His heart does some rather impressive acrobatics in his chest because, suddenly, there he is. Long hair held back from his face by his signature sweatband. Bare, sun-kissed shoulders flaunted in a singlet, and eyes… Well, he can't _really_ see them from this distance, but Shiro's mind helpfully fills in the blanks with saccharine sonnets of violets and brilliant constellations. Nothing's changed in these last four months, he realises with a jolt. He's still so gone for him. Maybe, defying all reason, more than ever.

He hears his name behind him, and somehow that kicks his brain into something resembling half-gear. He blurts out the first thing he can think of, in an effort to garner his attention. 

"Hey, Wild Card!"

Keith stops short, and it would almost be comical the way his startled eyes land on him, except he spins on his heels with speed akin to his serves and practically _runs_ back the way he came. Shiro's hand freezes in the air where he had started to wave to him.

"Ouch…" Matt hisses.

Shiro could just about crumble like sandstone out of pure mortification. A hand on his shoulder is the only thing that reminds him to lower his own.

"Maybe he didn't see you?" Matt offers kindly.

It's only pity. He _definitely_ saw him.

* * *

Allura decides to put her foot down on his penchant for self-pity pastries in _Paris_ of all places, so instead Shiro channels his misery into the swing of his racquet instead. He's never been one to map out draws, but that was before Keith. Now he fears it might be the only way to get close to him anymore. And that chance, he now knows, will come in the semi-final. He just has to trust himself to make it that far. He trusts Keith to do the same. 

The first sign of trouble comes in the third round though, when his shoulder twinges on his last shot of the day. Shiro can only be grateful it's a winner, and takes care to ice it after his press is done. In his stream, Keith is holding on, but only just. It's clear to Shiro that clay isn't his domain. But he fights for every point, that his tenacity overcomes his disadvantage, and in a lot of ways that makes him all the more impressive. Shiro makes it through the fourth round without any further complaint from his shoulder, and he breathes a sigh of relief when Keith manages the same too.

In the locker room, Matt is utterly offended when Shiro confesses his surprise to find he'll be facing him next in the quarter-final.

"It's not that I didn't think you'd make it this far," Shiro says hastily. "I just wasn't paying attention to the next draw, I swear."

It's a half-truth—one that Matt calls him out on immediately.

"Look me in the eye and tell me you're not already envisioning your match against Keith."

Shiro busies himself with his racquet bag.

"That's it. You're officially uninvited to pre-match breakfast."

Shiro frowns, finally looking up to him. "You never invited me to breakfast."

Matt blinks in surprise. "Oh, I'm so sorry, dude. Did you want to join me and Allura for breakfast tomorrow?"

"Uh, sure, I guess—"

"Great!" he beams, before dropping back into his grumpy expression. " _Now_ you're uninvited."

Shiro laughs as he straightens, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I honestly don't know what I expected…"

"Watch out, Shirogane. I'm not giving you a free pass to that little brat of yours."

Shiro feels his face heat immediately, quickly glancing around the locker room. But it's just them, with no one to overhear.

"He's not…"

A brat, is what he means to say. _Mine_ , is what his thoughts fixate on. Matt lets him off the hook with a laugh. 

"Easy there, I'm just teasing," he says, slinging an arm around the back of his neck. "You've never been so easy to wind up. This is a gift!" He grins as he steers them both out of the room, while Shiro tries to come back to his senses. "I'm serious about tomorrow, though. We both know I can beat you on clay."

He isn't wrong. In fact, of all the people to face ahead of Keith, Matt would probably be last on his list. Shiro might have taken the French Open last year during his perfect run, but the season before that, Matt had defeated him to claim his first-ever Grand Slam title. He could easily repeat that in tomorrow's quarter-final. Shiro needs to get his head on straight if he's to stand a chance. 

* * *

In the morning, Shiro skips out on breakfast, no matter how much Matt assures him the invitation actually does stand. Instead, he hits the practice courts again, with the intent to work out some of his nervous energy. The match to determine the first semi-finalist on his side of the draw leaves him with a complicated set of emotions. It's not just the fact that Keith is playing for that spot. It's the opponent he's up against too.

Three years, he and Adam Wilson had been together. Their relationship had been incredibly private, back when he was an unseeded player and Adam was just quietly starting to peak. When Shiro was still fresh-faced, his potential an unknown, Adam had been the embodiment of what success could mean to him. He was calm, he was kind, he was a foundation when Shiro's fledgling career had been so uncertain. Adam had been safe… Too safe, perhaps. When Shiro's aspirations outgrew his, Adam had tried to slow him down, tried to tell him he was oversubscribing to tournaments, warned that he wasn't taking care of his body on his ruthless schedule to climb the ranks. 

In a lot of ways, he was probably right. He had only ever had Shiro's best interests in mind. Maybe if he had listened then, his joints would click less, he wouldn't have to strap his shoulder so often, wouldn't need to manage the occasional ache and pain. But maybe he wouldn't be where he is now, either. At least, that's what Shiro assures himself. Back then, it had felt an awful lot like someone was trying to clip his wings when he only wanted to fly. 

It had been a quiet affair, their separation—as quiet as their whole relationship had been. No one had noticed a thing when they stopped talking, because no one had really noticed when they were together either anyway. That had always been deliberate, Shiro knew—they had only ever planned to make their relationship public after their careers were done, to keep attention purely on their tennis achievements. But maybe it had been a sign they were never meant to be too. That didn't mean it didn't hurt any less.

For all his intent to use his day between matches effectively, Shiro finds himself sitting on the sidelines rather than serving on the court. He promises he'll only check the score only briefly, but match point Wilson in the fourth set turns that into a brief check of the livestream, and when Keith fights back against all odds to claw back the tiebreaker and take them to a fifth set, it just becomes a full-blown impromptu viewing. 

Shiro doesn't even bother lying to himself; he wants Keith to win. It's not a dig at Adam. In spite of everything, their on-court relationship is amicable enough, if a little distant. He should probably _want_ Adam to win. (And maybe _that_ is a little bit of a dig—he knows he can beat Adam, should he also make it through to the semi.) But the challenge of the unknown that Keith presents is tantalising, impossible to resist.

Shiro can't deny that he's a little desperate to just have a moment of his time too.

For over an hour he sits there, while other players come and go for their practice. Shiro doesn't pay mind to any of them, glued to his phone screen. His heart pounds as Keith and Adam both wrestle for every point right up until tiebreak again. But Keith seems to switch gears from there, and Shiro breathes a sigh of relief when he takes the decider with little challenge from Adam. He startles himself with the sound, glancing up guiltily to see if anyone else heard. He seems to be in the clear, so he hastily stuffs his phone back in his bag and scrambles for his racquet to practice serves in an effort to repair his sense of dignity. It's a little shameful to be so invested in Keith's progression. Especially when there's no way he's invested in him. 

There is one positive to come out of his lost hours of practice though: Shiro feels his focus return to him sharper than ever. Now Keith is a certainty, all that's left is for Shiro to do his part, and make it past Matt tomorrow. Keith might not be invested, but Shiro is sure he still wants his rematch. 

Shiro wants it too. 

* * *

It's not ideal when Matt takes them to a fifth set with a frankly rude passing shot that Shiro reaches for in vain and misses entirely. He knows his friend was never going to follow the desired script, and he respects him for that. They have always shared the philosophy that there are no favours between friends on the court. Matt promises to pull no punches and Shiro does just the same for him.

It doesn't make it any less annoying, especially when a jolt of pain goes down his arm at his failed attempt to return. The sensation startles Shiro—much more than a mere ache. Hopefully it's just an anomaly. An injury this early in the season could be a disaster. 

The same shock of pain doesn't return for the rest of the match, but the discomfort never goes away. Maybe he'll be lucky with just a pinched nerve, or a bad cramp, but he's not so sure. Especially when it's the shoulder that has been giving him grief these last two tournaments. He tries to stretch it out, tries to ignore it as he breaks Matt twice to cruise through the last set, but he knows it will need ice the second he leaves the court. Still, he's all smiles as he takes the win, kissing his racquet strings and thanking the crowd with a wave as he meets Matt at the net.

"Guess I couldn't overcome the power of love," Matt teases as he shakes his hand, and Shiro digs his thumb into his knuckle in warning, making him laugh. That'll be fun to explain to the press if the microphones picked it up. 

"You played well," he opts for diplomatically, though he's looking forward to chewing him out in private later. After his court interview, Shiro finds Coran waiting for him in the locker room, looking concerned with a sports physician by his side.

"Why didn't you call for a medical timeout?" he scolds, as Shiro automatically sits and sheds his polo.

"We'd already been playing for—"

"Long matches are no excuse for neglecting your health!" Coran cries, sounding at his wit's end. Shiro can't blame him when the physician manipulates his shoulder gently and the discomfort turns to brief agony. 

He hisses and pulls away, avoiding Coran's eyes.

"I would say it's a pretty major ligament strain," comes the voice above him. "The area is pretty swollen already. We won't know for sure until an MRI. Ice and compression, and I'll get him some anti-inflammatories, but my advice would be to withdraw from the tournament."

Shiro feels his heart sink, drowning out the conversation that follows between his coach and doctor. So close, so _damn_ close to seeing Keith on the court, and this time he's the one to stumble at the final block.

"Shiro?"

He comes back to his surroundings, looking up to Coran's concerned face. "Matt's going to be pissed I took the semi finish off of him," he chuckles, in spite of his own crushing disappointment. "I guess we'll get this strapped up, then front the press?"

Coran nods, and the look of pity is almost too much.   
"I'll see what I can do about buying you some time."

* * *

Shiro does his best not to react to the sounds of surprise when he arrives for his conference, shoulder practically immobilised with ice strapped to the joint. Even with a towel around the back of his neck, the injury is painfully obvious. One journalist is quick through the gate, before he's even settled into his seat. 

"Should we be worried, Shiro?"

He tries not to let his smile turn bitter, remembering the words he rehearsed on the walk over. "Unfortunately I'm going to have to withdraw from tomorrow's semi," he begins. "I was starting to feel my shoulder a bit in that last set in particular. The doctor says it's okay, but from a management position, I need to keep it rested if it's to stay that way."

Another reporter speaks up, and Shiro hurries to find them in the sea before him.

"Can we expect to see you at Wimbledon?"

It's the entire reason he's withdrawing—so he can manage his season and not write off the rest of the major tournaments. He just hates it came at the expense of time with Keith. But his frustration doesn't lie with the press, so he ensures he keeps his mask friendly.

"That's the plan, yes."

"Are you disappointed you won't be able to go for a third Grand Slam this year?"

The question almost throws him. Honestly, the thought hadn't crossed his mind, still wrapped in his disappointment over tomorrow's match. Still, it would be strange to say otherwise.

"Of course," he agrees, but he's quick to move on. "I feel bad for Matt. If I had known what I know now, maybe I would have retired before the match ended so at least one of us could advance." There's a greater reason for his heavy-heartedness though, and it slips past his filter without much thought. "And I'm disappointed I won't get to face Keith tomorrow, but I'm sure he'll appreciate the advantage of a walkover to the final. He could easily take the Open with or without it."

And wouldn't that be a sight to see. Keith taking his very first Grand Slam win. If it can't be him, Shiro wants so dearly for it to be Keith's. He deserves to hold titles like 'victor' and 'reigning champion' to his name. Shiro tries to keep his smile to himself. 

"Hopefully I'll be able to give him his rematch on the grass court."

Another reporter snaps him out of his thoughts.  
"Speaking of Kogane, this is the second time in as many tournaments that he's lost an opponent to injury. He actually didn't seem to take it too well in Rome."

Oh… Shiro does not like where this is going.

"In fact, there have been some reports that he accused his opponent of using medical time to try to garner an advantage rather than for a genuine assessment.”

Shiro waits patiently for the question, wracking his brain for a defence… but it never comes. The reporter simply leaves it at that. What is Shiro supposed to do? Make a declaration of outrage? Scold him? The fact that the press wants to drag him into their attempts to discipline any elite player draws his disapproval. The fact that it's against Keith makes him sick. 

But he can't get argumentative, lest he make it worse. He already regrets mentioning his name. The last thing Keith needs is more heat while he's trying to focus on his game. Humour, Shiro finds, is always the best deflection. He reaches for that in lieu of fury. 

“I mean, Keith is more than welcome to join me for my check up to see for himself. I might need to hold someone's hand. I don't do well with needles.”

It comes out a little more flirtatious than he intended (though he can't deny the appeal such a concept has to him) but it works: the press laugh, and the reporter doesn't pursue. Shiro relaxes when talk returns to his injury.

"Shiro, what happens if you walk into the clinic tomorrow, and the doctor tells you it's worse than first thought? This is, after all, the same shoulder you strained in Madrid."

Shiro gives a one-shouldered shrug. "The doctor knows best. Whatever recommendation they give me, I'm not going to question it. But with any luck, I'll see you all in July."

Coran's hand on his back lets him know that he can leave, so he rises to the sound of his name on everyone's tongue as his coach gently ushers him out. The smile falls the second he's out of the room, and Coran eyes him with sympathy. Shiro jumps in before he can speak, not sure he's ready for comforting words just yet. 

"I think I'll walk back to the hotel, Coran," he says quietly. "Alone, if you don't mind."

Coran sighs, but nods. "Clear your head, boy. I'll message you with your appointment details when I have them."

Shiro musters a smile and a thank you, pulling the ice from his shoulder, but leaving the towel in place.  
"I won't take too long," he assures.

Thankfully, the corridor to the back exit of the stadium is abandoned as Shiro makes his way out, giving him a chance to reflect without interruption. It's a little stupid, he thinks, to be far more disappointed about missing the person on the other side of the net, rather than the chance to defend his title. It compares little to the stupidity of his sorry attempt at _flirting_ via his interview. He's not looking forward to the follow-up text from Matt on that one. Still, he indulges himself in letting his thoughts drift away from his injury for now, wondering what it would be like to have Keith walking beside him at a time like this. To hear him gently scolding him for his recklessness, holding his hand. Maybe even pressing a soft kiss into his shoulder…

Urgh. That doesn't make him feel any better at all. It's nothing more than fantasy at this point; one that will never come to fruition after all that has happened. Not if he can't utter a single word to the guy. He reaches for the door with his good hand, and is suddenly startled out of his thoughts by the sounds of yelling and a scuffle. It’s only a small fight, with two security guards restraining someone on the ground while another stands by and watches, casting an odd shadow in the lamplight. 

Only… it isn't a shadow. Its surface ripples as drops of darkness fall to make it spread by the person's feet. Shiro's sense of danger abandons him as he rushes toward the scene.

"What's going on here?"

The guards look up, and upon recognising him, speak words he doesn't understand and gesture for him to return inside, but he doesn't obey. He can't. Because the face that greets him, grisly split from jaw to cheek and gushing with dark blood, is all too familiar. Shiro's heart kicks into overdrive.

"Keith?!"

He doesn't show any sign of hearing him, staring blankly at his own hands, smeared red and dripping onto the pavement. He's already so pale, and his horrific wound bleeds freely, soaking his neck and clothes. 

_He's going into shock_ , Shiro realises. _Get a grip before you do too!_

Pulling the towel from around his neck, Shiro quickly bundles it to press the driest part to Keith's cheek, applying pressure. He doesn't even react to that, looking frighteningly like a standing corpse. Shiro looks around, spying a glint of metal on the pavement just away from where the guards restrain the unknown man. He doesn't understand.

"Keith, what happened?"

Shiro watches Keith slowly blink at the question, and his posture begins to wilt. Panicked, Shiro wraps an arm around him, trying desperately not to lose his grip on the towel. He fights back the urge to be sick as Keith's eyes roll to the back of his head and his legs evidently give out beneath him. Shiro holds tight to him, careful to avoid the puddle of blood as Keith's dead weight takes them down to the pavement.

"Keith? Keith?!" he begs, fear tying itself tight around his chest, trying to suffocate him with its icy grip. "Keith, can you hear me?"

Shifting his grip desperately, trying not to loosen his pressure on the towel, Shiro presses two fingers into the vulnerable flesh of Keith's neck, relief prickling at the corners of his eyes when Keith's pulse jumps weakly beneath them. His blood pressure must be low, but he's still alive. His eyes fly to the guards, where handcuffs have been fitted on the apparent culprit.

"Have you called an ambulance?" he asks, unable to keep the fury out of his tone. He has no idea if they even speak English, but he knows the word 'ambulance' means the same to them, at the very least. The one who stands while his partner keeps the attacker restrained nods in response.

"Oui, l'ambulance est en route."

He'll just have to trust that help will be here soon. He turns his entire focus back to Keith, holding him to his chest and curling over him, as if to protect him from further harm.

"Don't leave me," he murmurs quietly, just for him. "We haven't even had our first rematch yet. I've been looking forward to it since we met. Matches against you would be the stuff of legends. I want them to talk about our rivalry for lifetimes…"

His breath catches in his throat, and he presses his forehead to Keith's.

"But I don't want this," he confesses. "I hate the narrative, I hate the vitriol. And god, I'm so scared that's the reason I'm holding you right now. Keith, please wake up. Please be okay…"

Seconds pass with nothing but the sound of Keith's quiet breath passing between them.

"All I've wanted is the chance to talk to you. Ever since Melbourne… Sometimes it feels like you're the only thing I can think about. You seem so alone and I just want to help."

Slowly, he straightens from there. With Keith's body turned in toward his and the towel pressed to his cheek, Shiro can barely see his face at all. He's afraid to move him though; the bleeding seems to have slowed and he's not willing to risk it restarting in earnest. 

"I'm worried you don't want anything to do with me any more though. I think you hate me." He gives a humourless laugh. "Isn't that selfish of me, Keith? Watching you bleed and still obsessing over whether or not you even like me?"

A soft groan answers him, and Shiro tries to still the spike in his heartbeat as he tightens his grip, hushing gently. He sees Keith's lashes move, but from the way he holds him, he can't see those eyes he treasures so much. Perhaps that's for the best at a time like this.

"It's okay. The ambulance will be here soon. You're going to be okay."

God, he hopes he'll be okay.

"I—"

"Don't speak," Shiro cuts in, wincing at the edge of panic in his tone. He fights to level it out. "Just keep your face still until the doctor has had a look."

There's a soft sound of compliance by his heart, and Shiro feels fingers curl into his shirt. Thinking he may be searching for comfort—and looking for a sense of his own—Shiro carefully adjusts his grip to take hold of Keith's hand, easing it away. Shiro can't help but think of his own words during his interview, and his stomach plummets.

 _Careful what you wish for_ , an internal voice supplies snidely. _It may just come horribly true._

"Are you comfortable?" Shiro asks, as sirens warble in the distance. He'll adjust if he needs it. "Squeeze once for yes, twice for no."

He's answered with a grunt and a single squeeze, so Shiro stays motionless.

"Does it hurt?"

His knuckles crack under the force of the response, and Shiro winces both out of pain and his own insensitivity.

"Okay, stupid question, I get it."

He tries to calm himself with a deep breath, focusing on slowing his heartbeat and keeping himself steady. Absently, he runs his thumb over Keith's knuckles, trying to keep still and quiet while they wait for the ambulance. He can see flashing lights now. It won't be long. A little sound of despair pulls his focus back down, making Shiro panic, but when he sees Keith reaching for his shirt, he eases, holding his hand secure. He hadn't paid much mind, but now he can see the bloodstains on his shirt, and he understands Keith's distress.

"Got plenty of others," he tells him. "Don't worry."

The sirens cut out, and Shiro looks up to the rush of the paramedics and the clatter of the gurney they unload it from the back of the ambulance. The police are not far behind.

"Looks like your ride's here," he says, trying to keep his tone light.

The paramedics are on him before he can blink, easing Keith out of his arms and onto a stretcher. Shiro almost snatches him back when he whimpers, and something in his chest snaps when one of the paramedics has to force Keith to let go of his hand as his grip only tightens in response. Helplessly, Shiro watches as they load him into the back of the ambulance and take him away. Adrenaline receding, the forgotten ache in his shoulder returns with force, and the sticky feeling of drying blood on his skin and clothes comes into sharp focus. 

"Monsieur Shirogane?"

Shiro feels unfocused as he turns to face the officer who has come to stand beside him. Just over his shoulder, he can see more of his colleagues with the man the guards had restrained. He almost seems to be yelling at Shiro as they shove him into the police car. 

"We have a witness who saw the incident from across the road, as well as both the security employees," the officer tells him in thickly accented English. "We would appreciate your assistance with a statement too."

"Um, yeah. Of course," Shiro says distantly. "Could I… just make a call to my coach on the way?"

The officer nods and turns to lead the way back to the car. Shiro goes to take a step, but as he looks down to fish his phone from his shorts pocket, he freezes. Keith's blood stands stark against his white shirt, blotted under his collar where his head had rested, with a distorted handprint at his stomach where he had gripped his shirt. It looks like someone buried the knife in his chest instead.

In a lot of ways, it feels like that too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to apologise for how long this has taken me. No one is more aware of my time between updates than me, I assure you. My work-life balance has really been kicking my butt these last few months to the point where my headspace has not been excellent, but that's not an excuse! I just want to assure you that this story has not been abandoned like I've seen some people speculate. I just need a little more time than usual, I'm so sorry. I have a lot of love for this universe and there's so much of Shiro's perspective I eagerly want to explore, but I want to write organically rather than forcing it out when I'm close to real life burn out. Fandom is my happy place in a lot of ways, and I truly want to afford myself the mercy to spend more time on the things I enjoy like writing, so please bear with me as I try to get there.
> 
> Boring stuff over, I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and I'm still so overwhelmed with the lovely support I've received in continuing this story from another angle. It means so much to me, so thank you!
> 
> You can catch me on twitter [here](https://twitter.com/copilotsheith/status/1173240213130231811)!

**Author's Note:**

> It's Wimbledon. Ash Barty is carving it up like a legend. I'm a weak woman.
> 
> Yell at me on [twitter.](https://twitter.com/copilotsheith)


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